The Muffin Man
by Sadstuckforever413
Summary: After the deaths of three college students, Sherlock and John go undercover as a couple, to find the murderer.
1. Chapter 1

The door slammed a bit too loudly behind John, and he winced as the sound reverberated through 221B. He sighed and headed up the stairs, trying to make up for his noisy entrance by creeping up the stairs as quietly as possible. Not that that would help. Sherlock, and probably several of the neighbors, knew he was home anyway.

He found Sherlock in the living room, pacing around, occasionally glancing at his experiments in the kitchen, as though he had nothing better to do. Which he probably didn't. John smiled and put his briefcase down by the door, before maneuvering around Sherlock on his way to start the tea. He rummaged around in the cabinets and found his usual brew.

"Want some, Sherlock?"

No answer. John shrugged and turned back to the kettle on the stove. He heard Sherlock's pacing in the background, a rhythmic beat on the ground, that grew suddenly silent as Sherlock made his way to the dining room table, and his experiment. John sighed and circled the table before flopping onto the couch, arms sprawled over the side. He sat that way, in silence, as Sherlock fumbled with his chemicals and bodily fluids. This had become the norm ever since he'd moved into 221B with Sherlock, and he wondered how he had ever become accustomed to finding severed heads or fingers in the fridge.

"John, pass me that bottle over there."

Sherlock's voice broke John from whatever stupor he had fallen into and he made his way to the chemical-ridden table. Sherlock was pointing towards a bottle that couldn't have been more than three inches from his hand and John sighed before he picked it up and made to hand it to the consulting detective. John glanced at the label on the bottle. A name of an acid he couldn't pronounce. He looked up at Sherlock, who was bent over his microscope, hand out, waving at the air.

"John."

John shook his head and chuckled under his breath, handing Sherlock the small container before turning back to the kettle on the stove. Steam was seeping from under the lid and it wafted over John, a warmth that was verging on uncomfortable. He took the kettle off the stove and leaned back against the counter, running his hand over his face.

"How was lunch with Lucy?"

John looked up suddenly, taken aback by the sudden interest. He regarded Sherlock with some suspicion as he answered. "How did you...?"

He sighed and shook himself, more then used to being a bit stumped by Sherlock and his impossible deductions.

"Never mind. Uh, it was good. Fine. I had a sandwich."

"Yes, I know."

There was a bit of awkward silence as Sherlock looked him over.

"Was she pretty?"

John almost choked on his tea. Since when did Sherlock care if a girl was pretty or not? As he composed himself, and tried to dab at his now damp sweater, Sherlock stared down at him, still expecting an answer.

"Um... Yeah. I suppose she was pretty. Why does this matter," John managed to ask between coughs.

"Simply an experiment, really. Your reaction was very interesting. I've not known anyone to spit out their tea like that."

John gaped at the detective and shook his head, more then a bit frustrated at the situation. He huffed in indignation. "You ass."

Sherlock glanced at John, a smile curling at the edges of his lips, before turning back to his slide.

"Was that information relevant?"

Sherlock looked up from his microscope and stared at John intently.

"Very."

He didn't break his gaze for several seconds, examining John's face. Deducing him. After what felt like a bit of awkward silence, Sherlock grunted and turned, a bit hesitantly, back to his microscope, all interest apparently lost. John sighed a bit too loudly.

"Do you have a case?"

"No, but I heard tha-"

"Mmm... Lestrade does."

"What?"

Sherlock's phone vibrated in his pocket, and he fished it out with one hand, the other still focusing his microscope. He stepped away for a second as he flipped it open and a soft blur of words could be heard from the receiver.

"Where is it? Yes, yes. Don't wait up."

Sherlock snapped his phone shut, suddenly, and shoved it back in his pocket. He rushed to the door and pulled on his jacket and scarf. Before John could do anything, Sherlock had shoved John's briefcase aside, knocking several papers out of it, before hurrying out the door. John sighed loudly and stooped to pick up what little he could before he pulled on his jacket as well, and followed Sherlock down the stairs and out into the crisp, wintery air, leaving two cups of tea and a half assembled experiment behind.

* * *

><p>The security did little to stop the consulting detective and partner. The blaring lights from the police cruisers didn't seem to faze Sherlock, and when he was confronted by a young, obviously new, officer, he simply stared him down and walked past him. John followed behind Sherlock, glancing at the officer, as if saying, <em>"This is Sherlock fucking Holmes. Don't mess with us."<em> Donovan was the only one that tried.

"John. Sherlock."

John shot her an icy glare and simply nodded. He was not in the mood. Ever since the fall, Anderson and Donovan had little to say to Sherlock, maybe from respect, but more likely from fear. Of John. The first case back, Anderson had stopped Sherlock and berated him with his usual insults, only to attract the attention of Donovan, which didn't exactly help the situation much. Their verbal abuse went on for several minutes, and when it was all said and done, John had never come so close to hitting an officer. John did, in fact, tell them off, pointing out their horrible incompetence and lack of respect, and they even had the dignity to look ashamed when he was done with them, but he had held a grudge ever since. He would have gone on longer, had Sherlock not placed his hand on John's shoulder. John turned to look at him over his shoulder, and was greeted with the tiniest of smiles. For once, the detective had nothing to add to the conversation. A warm feeling had circled in John's stomach, and he couldn't help but smile back.

John breezed past Donovan and ignored Anderson entirely. He made his way into the crime scene, otherwise, unnoticed. Sherlock had sped ahead, and was now deep inside the building, leaving John to be led upstairs by himself. As he stepped into the old apartment building, John couldn't help but feel a slight tingling sensation in the back of his head. This was their first case in a few months now, and John could just feel the excitement building up in his chest. The building was rickety and falling apart. Boards were nailed to windows and doors, and as John was led upstairs, he saw several officers tearing them down, knocking dust into the air. Lestrade stood at the top of the stairs, by now, already engaged in a heated conversation with Sherlock. Or, _at _Sherlock. The detective stood still, emotionless, listening to whatever pointless information Lestrade had for him. John chuckled and stood to the side, listening in on whatever was being said.

"Sherlock, take the bloody case. Three people are dead, and the murderer has completely disappeared. This is exactly the kind of case you look for, right?"

He paused, waiting for a reaction.

"No thank you."

"What? Why, Sherlock?"

"It's simple. Drugs. There was never a murderer, Lestrade."

"Yes, there was, Sherlock! There were drugs, but not enough to kill them. Whatever killed them wasn't the drugs!"

Sherlock didn't reply and Lestrade sighed loudly.

"Look, Sherlock, if you don't help, people are gonna keep dying, yeah? So do it for them. "

He stood back and crossed his arms, staring at Sherlock expectantly. Sherlock didn't say anything, just stared back. Eventually, with out taking his eyes away from Lestrade, he spoke up.

"Show me the victims."

Lestrade pointed at the room four doors down and heaved a sigh of relief. He opened his mouth to say something, but Sherlock had rushed off down the corridor before he could speak.

"Save the thanks for afterwards," he threw behind his shoulder.

John rolled his eyes and followed them down the hall and into a small, dimly lit room, a thick fog lingering above their heads A trio of college students, two boys and one girl, lay sprawled on the floor, their mouths agape, eyes frozen open. The girl lay face up, a mop of electric pink hair covering a small face and several piercings. Her eyes were a dark amber color, left lifeless and pale in death. The two boys lay on top of each other, almost entwined, one with jet black hair and small freckles covering his sickly face, and the other a short brunette with bright blue eyes, his face, probably once pink with life, now left ashy and gray. Lestrade gestured towards the teenagers lying on the ground, a solemn look residing on his face.

"David Madrid, Josh Celio and Mallory St. Claire. 18, 18, and 19."

A couple syringes lay scattered around the bodies, but they were all partially full, not even close to being an overdose. John knelt beside them and did his little medical examination, as was usual, before turning back to the group. He stood slowly, staring down at the dead bodies.

"They died of asphyxiation, Sherlock. From a seizure. Lestrade's right. It wasn't the drugs."

By this time, Sherlock had knelt beside the bodies as well, and had done his own examination.

"Of course, John. What do you take me for, an idiot?"

Lestrade's face contorted into a look of indignation, and he was about to speak up, when Sherlock jerked his head up.

"Shut up. I know what you said."

Lestrade snapped his mouth shut and smirked at Sherlock for being wrong for once. Sherlock resumed his deductions.

"Do a full history on these kids. Find where they worked, where they went to school, where they buy their groceries, what they had for breakfast this morning. All of it."

He looked up at John and nodded.

"Time to go, John. Lestrade, send the information to us, or give it to Mycroft. Actually, scratch that; deliver it straight to me. Tell the media it was a suicide until we figure this out. Come on, John."

He left the room, his coat swishing behind him. John sighed and followed after him.

* * *

><p>A couple days later, John was awoken by several signs of movement coming from downstairs. It was probably Sherlock. He glanced at the clock on his bedside table. It was way too early to be up, and Sherlock knew it. With that information, John was almost tempted to just ignore him and continue sleeping, but he knew it would be useless, Sherlock would be calling him down in a few minutes, already quite aware that he was awake. John sighed and pulled himself out of bed, throwing on a shirt and some pants at the floor of his closet. He ran his hand through his hair and trudged down the stairs, not even trying to be quiet. After making himself a cup of tea, he found Sherlock at the coffee table rummaging through a stack of papers, an air of urgency and determination circling his head.<p>

"Come help me, John."

"I see the information arrived."

"Obviously. Now help me. I've got their addresses, but I haven't found where they work yet."

"Did you get any sleep last night?"

"How was I supposed to sleep, John, with all this information just lying here? Besides, my experiment hadn't cultivated yet, so I saw no need to sleep. Now help me."

John rolled his eyes and made his way over to the coffee table. He sat on the floor across from Sherlock and rummaged through the papers with him, trying, in vain, to rub the sleep from his eyes. It couldn't have been more than 5 AM.

"It seems that Josh and David were gay, John."

"Mmm. It's fine."

That would explain the awkward position they had found them in. He skimmed through a particularly long piece of background info.

"It's all fine," John yawned.

Minutes passed. John glanced up at Sherlock, who was staring at him intently.

"Sherlock, I'm not gay."

"I didn't say you were."

"Alright."

"Ok."

John blinked a couple times in response to the odd comment, and Sherlock gave John some pointed looks, but they otherwise resumed their search without a word. After several hours of deafening silence, and a quick breakfast break, John held up a piece of paper, a look of triumph lighting on his face.

"I found it, Sherlock."

Sherlock snatched it from his hands and skimmed over it, muttering under his breath. His phone buzzed just then. He grumbled under his breath, not completely happy with being interrupted, but he flipped it open anyway and sat, silent, as he listened to the person on the other side.

"Goodbye, Mycroft. Try to be nice."

Sherlock rolled his eyes as he put his phone back in its place on the table. John looked at him, expectantly, waiting for him to comment on what had just taken place. When none came, John decided to break the awkward silence that had accumulated in the air.

"So?"

Sherlock looked up, confused.

"What? Oh. Mycroft has people investigating their homes and work. Nothing much there."

John nodded and turned back to the coffee table and the years of information on the three students. After several minutes, a thought occurred to him, an out-of-place thought that grew steadily more intriguing as the moments passed.

"What did they have for breakfast?"

Sherlock looked up then and stared at the wall behind John, his brain probably moving a million miles per hour.

"Indeed."

He pulled himself off the ground and flipped open his mobile phone, paused, thought better of it, and returned it back to his pocket before rushing out the door, jacket and scarf forgotten. John decided not to question the little charade, and followed his consulting detective outside, down the street, and all the way to the door of Scotland Yard, where Lestrade paced the floor, completely out of ideas.

"Breakfast."

Lestrade looked up at Sherlock, tired and a bit too exhausted to be confused.

"What?"

"Breakfast, Lestrade. What did they have for breakfast that morning?"

Lestrade looked around the room, as though the answer lay, hidden, somewhere in the bookshelves.

"I don't know. Where do you expect me to find that information, Sherlock?"

"I thought you were head of Scotland Yard, Lestrade. I assumed you were a bit smarter than average."

"Really?"

"Mm. At times."

"What are you getting at, Sherlock," John intervened before it got too out of control.

"If Lestrade would be so kind as to check their histories, I'm sure he would find that they all had the same thing for breakfast. Thus, opening them up to the drugs that killed them."

"Sherlock, we've been through this. I checked, the labs checked. The drugs didn't kill them."

"Yes they did, John. Don't you see? There are a countless amount of drugs that could go undetected unless we were looking specifically for them. Let me see the toxicology report."

"It hasn't come back yet."

"Well, when it does, send it to Molly. I'll pick it up there."

He flipped open his phone and began dialing a number.

"Lestrade, phone me when-"

His phone rang.

"Yes? Where are they? I'll be there in a few minutes. Try not to start too much trouble, Mycroft."

He shut off his phone and stuffed it back in his pocket, not even bothering to finish dialing the number.

"Come on, John."

"Where are we going?"

John and Sherlock both made their way to the door, John giving Lestrade an apologetic look before heading outside.

"To their workplaces."

"I thought Mycroft had people working there."

"Yes, well. They found what they had for breakfast. And a bomb."

"What?! Is everyone Ok?"

"I didn't ask."

John stared at Sherlock for a few seconds, mouth gaping open. He sighed and ran his hand over his face, directing his attention to the ground in disbelief.

"What did they have for breakfast?"

"Muffins."

"All three of them?"

Sherlock nodded and they continued with their heated stride through downtown London. John hailed a cab, a few minutes into their journey, and they both sat in silence for the next few intersections while the driver made his way through traffic. Finally they arrived at the door of a small bar, police officers and official looking people crowding around the front entrance. Sherlock gestured at the building with his arm.

"Chesterton's Local Bar. The work place of both Josh Celio and David Madrid, John."

John nodded and tried to force his way through the clump of bodies that surrounded them both. Sherlock parted them like the Red Sea and he and John hurried inside, only to be stopped by Anthea and her phone.

"He's through the door."

"Thank you for that obvious information, Anthea."

"Sure thing, Mr. Holmes," she threw absently behind her shoulder.

John paused and turned back to Anthea.

"Um, Anthea? The bomb. Did you guys take care of it?"

She nodded, but didn't look up, or even acknowledge John as she walked off, to some unknown place far on the other side of the pub.

"Ok."

John couldn't seem to get a full sentence out around her. Anthea barely even looked up from her phone, and as he Sherlock both made their way through the wooden double doors and around several suspicious stains on the dance floor, John couldn't help but smile at her ever acute sense of mobility and awareness, even though she was hardly ever off her phone. Mycroft was indeed through the door, waiting at the corner of the bar, sunlight filtering through the window, making him look older than he probably was. He didn't look at them when they entered the room, and Sherlock did little to make contact with him. They both sat down beside Mycroft, but that was the most that happened for the next few minutes. Finally, John could stand the silence no longer.

"Um... Why are we here?"

They both stared at him, as though he had interrupted a very long and passionate conversation. Sherlock's face was a merge of confusion and annoyance, and by the time Sherlock turned back to Mycroft, John couldn't decide which had won out.

"As I was saying, Sherlock, they weren't tainted. If they were, it would have to be something extremely rare."

Sherlock paused slightly, as if considering something, before nodding and standing up from his chair, obviously gaining a lot more information from that conversation of deductions than John had. John jumped up too, not entirely content with what had been said.

"Wait. Sherlock. What are we searching for? And more importantly, what just happened?"

Sherlock didn't even pause on his way to the door, and just continued on his way through the morning fog. John glanced back at Mycroft, confused, and he sighed. He looked back outside, at the slight drizzle in the air, and followed Sherlock through the streets of London, once again.


	2. Chapter 2

"Where are we going, Sherlock?"

"George's."

John sighed. If the urgency that circled his head was anything to go by, that was all John was going to get out of Sherlock for the time being. He assumed they were headed to the work place of Mallory St. Claire. That was the only location they hadn't searched yet, and that was probably where the muffins had come from in the first place. They continued their journey on foot, and eventually made it to a quarantined restaurant on a city corner. The lights at the entrance were off, but the sign above them still read "George's" in bright, fluorescent colors, as though it was still trying to attract business, even though the restaurant was obviously closed, what with a countless number of police cruisers parked out front and two security guards watching the front entrance. John and Sherlock both wound their way through crowds of slightly agitated officials and made their way to the door of the restaurant, where several scared looking employees stood shivering. Sherlock fished his magnifying glass out of his pocket and stooped at the kids' feet, occasionally running his hands through the dirt around the door, or sniffing at a shoe, but mostly just observing. Content with the information, he stood slowly and stared at the frightened employees, making them all take a step back.

"Which one of you brought in the muffins?"

The kids all shook their heads and craned their necks trying to see who might raise their hand or claim responsibility, heads hung in shame. Eventually a scrawny boy of about 18 stepped forward. He trembled as he spoke.

"Um, sir? None of us brought those muffins in. I found them on the counter with a note addressed to all of us: Enjoy. Th-that was it. Do you think they might have been tainted?"

"Yes." The boy blinked.

"Did two boys about your age come in and have a few before leaving?"

They all nodded.

"How many did they each eat?"

The boy spoke for the group again.

"Um, about 8 or 9 each. Maybe a bit more, maybe a bit less. I didn't really keep track."

Sherlock nodded.

"If any of you experience any fatal complications, please let me know. It may benefit the case greatly."

The boy looked pale. As did the rest of the group of employees.

"Mmm. Anderson, this boy is going to need a blanket now."

Then Sherlock strode through the door, leaving John with a group of terrified teenagers to deal with.

"I'm sure you'll be fine. If it were a lethal enough dose, you would all be dead by now, right? That's obviously not the case."

It didn't seem to lift their spirits much, so John just sighed, hesitantly patted one on the shoulder, and continued on his way. The restaurant had obviously just been quarantined, as there were plates of food still on the tables and the whole room smelled of pasta. There were several counters and tables everywhere, even a small bar in the corner. Sherlock was nowhere to be seen. John poked his head around into the kitchen and found Sherlock and Lestrade at a counter examining a plate of half-eaten muffins. Sherlock picked one up with his thumb and forefinger and placed it in a plastic bag he had ready.

"That's all I needed."

"I shouldn't even let you in here," Lestrade grumbled under his breath.

"But you need me, Lestrade," Sherlock said absentmindedly as he held the plastic bag up to the light. Lestrade's face twisted into a strained expression as he watched Sherlock putter around the room, bag clasped in hand.

"Yeah. I do."

Sherlock turned the bag this way and that, trying to get a good view of the muffin, but little was achieved in doing so. He threaded his fingers through his hair and sighed loudly –finally giving up for the time being— and stopped in the middle of the floor, eyes still fixed on the muffin bag.

"Mmm… Come on, John. Molly probably needs some company."

He turned to the door and made his way out into the cluster of people that were crowding at the entrance, and John sighed. He glanced over his shoulder at Lestrade, who was shaking his head in confusion. John, too, was confused, but he made his way through the crowd of people as well, on the heels of his consulting detective. He eventually made it through the throng of people, gasping in relief, as though he had been running out of air. Sherlock had hailed a cab by then and he stepped inside, not even waiting for John.

"Sherlock!" He tried to make his voice reach the insufferable prick, but his cry was lost in the wind.

He tried flagging the cab down as it pulled away, but he was too late, and he was left standing on the side of the road, cursing at the wind. _The bastard._ He grumbled under his breath and hailed his own cab, sitting in silence as it made its way through traffic. He should be used to it by now, chasing after Sherlock. God knows he did it enough already. He sighed and dragged his hand through his hair, not entirely content with the situation. The cab ride was a little more than silent, and even though the driver tried to make conversation, John just wasn't in the mood. When the ride was over, John was sure the driver was more than happy to be rid of the antisocial blogger.

* * *

><p>The hospital was still cold, still quiet, still full of sick people, and as he was led down a long hallway that he had never seen before, he couldn't help but shudder at all the dead bodies stored away, just a floor down. His little tour finally ended at a door with Molly's name inscribed on the front, and as he opened this new door, he couldn't help but notice the size improvement. The staff room hadn't really been meant for the whole staff at once, and they were often packed in tightly, trying to find a place to –at least— stand for the duration of their lunch break; but this new office of Molly's was the size of the staff room and then some. Molly was sitting at a small table in the center of the room, bent over what appeared to be a late lunch.<p>

"Very nice, Molly. Congratulations on your promotion."

Molly jumped slightly in her chair, and as she turned to the door, John saw her bend to pick up a napkin she had dropped in her fright. She sighed in relief when she saw John's face in the doorway and she smiled widely at him. He glanced around the room, surveying her new desk and city view as she approached, her smile growing wider as she saw where he was looking.

"Thank you, John. I just moved in yesterday. Isn't it nice?"

"Very much so."

He paused.

"Have you seen Sherlock around?"

"You might want to check the morgue. That's where he always is, isn't it?"

John nodded and turned back to the sterile looking hallways, but was stopped by Molly as she grabbed at his arm.

"Um, I know it's none of my business but, is something up between you and Sherlock? He came by yesterday, around noon, and he seemed a bit upset. And it wasn't just from his experiments. It was a different kind of upset this time. I couldn't really tell what was going on, so I thought maybe you did?"

John shook his head. There wasn't really anything that he could think of that would make Sherlock so visibly upset.

"No, not really. Yesterday, you said? He didn't have a case then. He was probably bored, Molly. Nothing to worry about."

He smiled what he hoped was a reassuring smile, but she didn't seem too reassured.

"Wasn't that the day you had lunch with Lucy?"

John nodded, not completely sure what that had to do with Sherlock being upset.

"Maybe he was... jealous?"

John almost laughed. "Sherlock jealous? God forbid!"

Molly shook her head and clicked her tongue scoldingly.

"I'm serious, John."

He sighed.

"Molly, Sherlock is married to his work. There's no way he would be jealous. Even if he were, which he's not, Lucy is already taken. So, sorry, but your theory has been debunked."

He chuckled under his breath and gave her an apologetic look, as though he really were sorry her unlikely story was wrong. It was Molly's turn to sigh this time.

"Take him to dinner at least, John. It would help him get over his boredom."

John considered her request for a moment, and then finally nodded at her. Dinner would be a good way to finally get to the bottom of Sherlock's sudden fit of depression. If the bastard would eat, of course. He had gotten way too skinny over the course of the past few cases.

"Sure, Molly. I'll take Sherlock to dinner." John rolled his eyes.

Molly smiled and set down the napkin she had been holding to cross over to her desk and grab a sleek binder from the top drawer. She held it out to John as he turned back to the artificially lit hallways.

"Here you are. The toxicology report finally came in. Lestrade told me to give it to you."

John nodded at her and glanced at the report before heading out into the hallway. Molly didn't try to stop him this time, and he continued on his way, through the lobby and down a flight of stairs, all the way to the morgue. Sherlock was, indeed, there, pacing up and down the room, obviously more than anxious to get the report back. John held out the binder as Sherlock passed him for the second or third time. "Here you are, Sherlock. Molly sends her love."

Sherlock snatched the binder from his hands and skimmed through it, eyes wandering all over the page as he tried to pinpoint that one bit of information that would prove that he was right. He flipped through the whole report several times, his hands running through his hair. "Where are you? What killed you...?"

He went on like this for several minutes, and John just stood to the side and watched. Eventually, Sherlock had exhausted the report one too many times. He threw the binder onto a nearby table in disgust and sat back in a chair that was placed against a desk, fingers resting on lips. John sighed and ran his hand over his face.

"I assume the report said nothing?"

Sherlock stood up a bit too quickly and resumed his pacing, occasionally stopping to gesture at John as he continued his ranting. "Nothing. There has to be something, and yet there's not, John!"

He sighed and placed his fingers against his lips in his 'thinking' position again.

"The victims were obviously poisoned, and the poison was self-administered. Lestrade has it published that it was a suicide. But you and I know that it's not. Now, what is the killer's motive behind all this, John? It has to be here somewhere."

He continued muttering quietly to himself and, since John had nothing of importance to add, he made his way over to the table where the black binder had been tossed aside and scanned it himself. The only thing of relevance that had been detected were traces of the meth and steroids they had been taking. Sherlock was right. There wasn't a single thing here.

"What could it _be _John?"

Sherlock had stopped his pacing and turned to face the doctor, an obvious look of pure frustration etched on his face. John shook his head, just as exasperated, and handed Sherlock the binder, as if that might help them both with their problem. Sherlock sighed and sat back down, still quite frustrated. John, with nothing else to do, made his way across the room and poked Sherlock on the shoulder, finally deciding to take Molly up on her offer. "Um.. Sherlock?"

Sherlock, eyes closed, waved John away with one hand. John rolled his eyes and moved to where he stood right in front of Sherlock, feet spread apart. There was no use backing down now.

"Sherlock? I thought we could go out for dinner some time?"

Sherlock opened one eye and peered at John, his brows knit in confusion. "Is this really that important right now, John?"

John cringed and tried to avert his eyes, hoping that if he did, this conversation could be avoided. He realized, only now, that this wasn't exactly the most opportune time to wonder about dinner arrangements.

"Not necessarily, Sherlock. Just thought I should mention it."

Sherlock nodded and closed his eye, returning to his mind palace. "Now. Go away, John."

John nodded in response, as if Sherlock could actually see him with his eyes closed. He shook himself and then turned away, his back facing Sherlock, face probably a bright shade of crimson. He wandered around a bit as Sherlock sat thinking, and eventually, he could stand the silence no longer.

"Sherlock I-"

He was interrupted by a soft buzz in Sherlock's pocket. The detective fished his phone out of his pocket and held it up to his ear, eyes still closed. He nodded slowly as a soft blur of words sounded from the phone, probably Lestrade updating Sherlock on the status of the bomb. Suddenly, Sherlock's eyes shot open and he jumped up from his chair, the phone still against his ear.

"Say that again!" He paused. "Say that again! What you said before!"

A rush of words spurted from the receiver, and Sherlock rushed to the door, only pausing to nod at the person on the other end, and then snap his phone shut and shove it back in his pocket.

"Come along, John."

He didn't even glance back at John as he spoke and then he was out the door and down the hallway. John sighed. Why did this always happen?

"Wait, Sherlock. What just happened?"

"Drugs happened, John! Lestrade found a stash of them in Josh and David's work place. Apparently, these kids had quite the drug addiction. Now _this_ is exciting, John! Now we have a motive!"

John looked up at Sherlock as they strode down the hallway, and he chuckled at the look of pure joy that was on his face. It was absurd, out-of-place, and so very Sherlock. John couldn't help but smile, too. Sherlock's excitement was infectious.

* * *

><p>Lestrade was pacing up and down the room –trying really hard not to bump into chairs and tables as he did so— waiting for John and Sherlock to walk through the double doors of Chesterton's, and when they finally did, he simply had to point and follow after them both. Sherlock stood over the pile of plastic bags and boxes of drugs at the back of the shop, and he giggled. "Oh… This is fantastic! No wonder the killer was out to get these kids." He clapped his hands like a child and turned to John, a huge grin plastered on his face.<p>

"Wait. What?" John blinked and furrowed his brow in confusion.

"A motive, John." Sherlock grabbed John by the shoulders and shook him. "A motive!"

John nodded. "Yes. You've mentioned that before. What is it?"

Sherlock stopped for a few seconds and stared at the rest of the people in the room, Lestrade and John, each in turn, as he tried to pass some unforeseen knowledge to them, as if he expected them to know it. He shook his head slightly, and Lestrade shrugged. Finally, Sherlock found his gaze back at John, who was still looking at him quite expectantly, waiting for an answer.

"Don't you see it?"

John groaned and ran his hand across his face. "Obviously we don't, Sherlock! Please enlighten us with your plethora of knowledge."

Sherlock blinked and straightened up a bit before clearing his throat and beginning with his deductions.

"Well, let's assume that this," he gestured at the plastic bags lining the floor, "was not just a drug addiction –though that might be plausible— but a business."

Lestrade, from his post at the back of the room, stepped forward a bit and raised his voice, so as to reach Sherlock with his feedback. "What? Like a drug dealership?" Sherlock sighed.

"Yes. A drug dealership." He cleared his throat again and cast a pointed look at Lestrade.

"These children obviously had to be very business-savvy to hold such a momentous drug stash here, and sell it without being caught. So, judging by the size of this stash, I think it would be safe to say that they also had quite few customers come by."

John nodded. The pieces were indeed coming together now.

"So the murderer was a customer. What exactly happened, though? What about the bomb that was placed here? Were they just not fans of the service that was given? What happened, Sherlock?"

"I have a few ideas as to what happened, so don't worry too much; and I assume the bomb and the killings are connected, so that's taken care of, but I refuse to give a final verdict without all the facts lining up. So, we shall see what time reveals."

Lestrade pursed his lips and looked up from his silent state of listening. "So, what now?"

Sherlock nodded and ran his hands through his hair. "Indeed. What now?"

He paced for a few minutes, as both Lestrade and John stared solemnly at the consulting detective. Suddenly, he jerked his head up and faced them, his eyes bright and arms outstretched.

"I assume you have an idea?"

"Indeed, John." He smiled. "I suppose dinner reservations might be a bit hard to come by at this time of day." He smirked at Lestrade, and John furrowed his brow in confusion. He glanced back at Lestrade, who also seemed equally as confused.

"Wait. Sorry, what's happening?"

Sherlock spun on his heels to face John, a huge smirk plastered on his face.

"That's me accepting your request. We're going to dinner."

John blinked and shook himself. He wondered if he should ask why, but he decided that he would find out sooner or later. Instead, he asked a seemingly better question.

"Where?"

Sherlock's smile grew wider and he pressed his fingers to his lips.

"Here. Chesterton's Local Bar."


End file.
